


Les Jours Tristes

by Lyras



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:43:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyras/pseuds/Lyras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of <i>Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows</i>, Luna deals with some Wrackspurts, developing an unlikely friendship in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Les Jours Tristes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [igrockspock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/igrockspock/gifts).



> Written for igrockspock as part of hp_holidaygen.livejournal.com, and originally posted there. The title comes from the song of the same name by Yann Tiersen. Thank you to aggiebell90 for beta-reading; all remaining errors and infelicities are my own.

The corridor was wide and grey, despair seeping from the stone although the Dementors were long gone. Luna trod softly, as if to minimise the pressure of her soles on the floor. Her own dungeon had not been pleasant, but neither had it been like this.

Cell doors slid past. She did not pause to consider their occupants, only counted until she reached the one she was looking for. The guard halted beside her and she smiled at him, although she did not feel like it. Somebody had to guard the prisoners, after all.

"I'll go in alone," she said and her voice echoed around the corridor.

The guard handed her a small, round knut. "When you're ready, tap your wand onto this and I'll come and get you. And if she tries anything, you press it or call into it or anything you like, and we'll come running."

"I'll be fine," she said. On the other side of the viewing plate, a woman was sitting very straight, staring at the wall as if it were a window with a beautiful view. "She won't hurt me."

"If you say so." The guard nodded and strode back down the corridor.

Luna adjusted her new earrings, touched her wand to the oak and murmured the password. As she stepped through the doorway, the prisoner turned her head.

"Come to gloat, I suppose?"

Luna busied herself with pulling the chair from the corner of the cell and setting it at a decent distance from the woman on the bed. She placed her bag at her feet, stowed her wand in her front pocket and balanced her palms on her thighs. Finally, she faced the prisoner.

"No," she said. "I haven’t come to gloat."

Narcissa Malfoy's expression was impassive. "Forgive me if I can't imagine any other reason for you to come here."

"Can't you?" Luna asked.

Mrs Malfoy stared at her. "No," she said after a moment. "I can't."

Luna sighed. People never seemed to understand things that seemed perfectly obvious to her. "I requested an interview."

"Yes." Mrs Malfoy’s tone was clipped. "And here you have me."

"I’m not sure you understand," Luna said. "I mean, for _The Quibbler_. I'm trying to write about last year." Technically, it was still 'this year', but the period from January to April seemed to belong out of time, somehow. She always thought of it as happening long ago.

Mrs Malfoy shrugged. "I fail to see how I could help you write about _last year_."

"Oh, don't you?" Luna had assumed that this would be obvious, and she hastened to explain. "You see, I don't want to write about just me. That would be easy, but there's really not much material there, you know. It's all a little obvious."

Mrs Malfoy cocked her head. "And I could help you be less obvious -- how?"

"You can describe what it was like from your point of view," Luna said eagerly. "How it felt to have your home taken over by Voldemort, used for his headquarters, with prisoners kept in your cellars." Tortured there, too, but she would not mention that now. Not yet.

"You want me to incriminate myself and my family for the titillation of your readers? Why do you imagine I would do that, with the trial set for next month?"

"You wouldn’t be incriminating yourself," Luna said. "Everyone knows what happened. Besides, public opinion is often swayed by candid interviews -- just two years ago, if you remember, a Quibbler exclusive interview helped to change the way Harry Potter was perceived by the public."

Mrs Malfoy shot her a look of loathing. "Harry Potter has lived his life in the spotlight. I and my family are not that kind of people."

"No?" Luna reached into her bag for the articles she had collected. She handed the folder to Mrs Malfoy, who took it reflexively.

"This is a selection of articles in various journals and magazines." Luna strove to keep her voice light. "About the Malfoy family in the past few weeks."

Mrs Malfoy eyed the folder as if it might be jinxed; gingerly, she lifted the cover and leafed through the contents. Her eyes widened, then narrowed as she skimmed the articles, until her mouth opened in a silent snarl. That would be the Skeeter profile, Luna thought, billed as 'the definitive inside story of a family's demise'.

The folder slapped onto the concrete floor; its contents scattered, and an article landed between bed and chair. In the photograph, Draco Malfoy rubbed convulsively at his left forearm, eyes wide and staring. Mrs Malfoy's gaze lifted from her son to Luna. "How do I know you won’t simply imitate these…these hacks? There's enough character assassination here to ruin us for a lifetime."

"I suppose you’ll have to trust me," Luna said earnestly. "But I think my article will be different. None of these articles have the inside story. It’s all conjecture and assumptions."

Mrs Malfoy raised her eyebrows. "And you think telling everyone the truth -- about how we lived with known Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself -- will change people’s attitudes for the better?"

"Perhaps not for everyone," Luna said. "But in some quarters, yes. But even if it doesn’t, that’s not the important thing, is it? The important thing is that the story is told, and told well."

"All right." Mrs Malfoy folded her arms. "You want my story. What do I get from this, if not my family’s reputation?"

For answer, Luna looked at her. "How's Draco?"

"You know very well I don't know."

Luna nodded. "No. But I do."

Mrs Malfoy looked at her; she used all the rage accumulated in five months of imprisonment to keep her expression bland. Finally, Mrs Malfoy snapped, "Well? Tell me!"

"He won't see anyone. He won't even take advice about the trial." Draco needed his mother, that much was clear to Luna. Unfortunately for him, none of the Malfoys were permitted to be in contact until their case was heard by the Wizengamot.

Mrs Malfoy was watching the floor, but the tear that slid down her cheek betrayed her. Luna lost her appetite for manipulation. "Your husband is over his flu," she said quietly. He's spending a lot of time writing letters to old friends, but he isn't getting much response."

Mrs Malfoy's lips compressed suddenly. "Can you…can you take a letter for me?"

"Yes." Luna took a breath. "Next time. If you answer some questions for me."

***

They have taken her dirigible plum earrings.

She knows it's silly, but that's what hurts the most when she wakes in the night. Her father gave her those earrings and promised they would open her mind to the wisdom of the universe. If ever she needed wisdom, it's now.

Her wand and her trunk are also gone. The article on moon frogs that she copied from the Restricted Section of the library, and the Thestral bone she was going to give her father for Christmas, are lost. Those hurt, but she can copy the article again, and there will be other Thestral bones. The greatest gift she could give her father for Christmas would be her freedom.

She won't have it, though; she knows that already. The Death Eaters who took her off the train laughed when she told them her father would tell the world what had happened to her.

"I don't think so," one of them said. "Not when we tell him we'll send him one of your fingers for every word he publishes about you. You and Harry Potter."

Luna squeezes her fists together at the memory. Once, she would have assumed that they were joking, but she's seen what the Carrows are capable of in lessons. She doesn't want to lose any fingers, or toes, or anything else.

She's sad, though, because she knows her father will comply. They are everything to each other, and he won't take any risks while she's in Death Eater hands. He's been so brave up till now, but that's over. Poor Daddy. He'll be so afraid for her.

Fists still clenched tight, she composes a letter to him in her head.

Dear Daddy,

Please don't worry too much about me, although I know you will, because I would be horribly frightened if our situations were reversed. But I'm fine.

Well, I'm a little scared, and I don't want to lose any fingers, and there are lots of Wrackspurts down here, but I am unharmed in body and soul. I can look after my mind for a little while, although I've lost my earrings. Still, it will be good practice. Mummy always said we should use things like that as tools, but never rely on them completely.

I miss you. I was looking forward to getting home and telling you all about school. Things have been bad there, but not as bad as on the outside, I don't think. Not as bad for me, at least, because Ginny and Neville and I are such good friends, and friends make such a difference, don't they?

I've been thinking a lot about Mu-

"Will you stop that racket?"

She squints at the man lying against the back wall. It's always puzzled Luna why people insist on sleeping next to walls, when this closes off such a large part of their mind. Since she wasn't told to sleep anywhere specific when she was put in this cellar, she has made herself as comfortable as she could by flattening some old boxes and arranging them in the middle of the room.

Belatedly, she realises that he was addressing her.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't realise I was speaking aloud."

"Well, you were." He doesn't sound angry now -- just exhausted. He was asleep when they brought her in, or pretending to be, and has taken little notice of her until now. She hears rustling and sees his huddled shape rise into a sitting position. "How old are you?"

"Sixteen." She keeps her hands clenched. He doesn't look likely to hurt her -- or didn't, from what she saw of him before they turned out the light -- but she's learned to be wary in the past few months.

"Sixt--" He breaks off with a muttered swearword.

"How old are you? I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

Silence. "You don't recognise me?"

"I'm sorry." She strains, but can only make out a dark, featureless shape, not a person. "I think I know your voice, but everything's so strange here."

He croaks, and she realises belatedly that he's laughing. "Is that what you call it? My name is Ollivander."

"Oh, Mr Ollivander!" she cries as the horror of his plight dawns on her.

"Yes?"

"Have you been here all this time?"

"I have."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she says just as he adds, "How long exactly have I been here?"

"I'm sorry," she says again, and he waits for her to answer. "You disappeared in August last year, and it's nearly Christmas, so that's...almost sixteen months. I'm so sorry."

"Yes, well." He groans, apparently shifting into a more comfortable position. "Sorry's all very well, but is anyone looking for me? Do they have any leads?"

"My father's been coordinating the search ever since the Ministry fell," she answers. "Through _The Quibbler_."

" _The Quibbler_?" he repeats. "I don't think I know that...oh."

She recognises the tone, but she knows how to deal with that. " _The Quibbler_ has become the voice of the opposition to You-Know-Who since Scrimgeour's death. Everyone reads it, you know."

"Do they, now?" He sighs. "Well, _do_ they have any leads?"

"I'm afraid not," Luna says sadly, because if her father had a lead that would mean he was closer to finding her, too. "But there are lots of people looking," she adds. "Daddy's circulation quadrupled before they banned it. I'm sure someone'll find out we're here soon."

The old man grunts. "Plenty of people already know we're here. Severus Snape, for example."

" _Does_ he?"

"He certainly does."

Luna ponders this. "Well," she said, "I'm sure he must be working out a way to get us out. Mr Ollivander?"

"Yes?"

"Would you mind telling me where 'here' is? Where we are?"

"Where we are? Why, this is Malfoy Manor, child. Home of Lucius, Narcissa and Draco Malfoy." He shifts his weight again. "Draco Malfoy. Hawthorn, ten inches, unicorn hair. I should have cursed it when I had the chance."

"Oh, but you wouldn't have," she says. "That would have been wrong."

He makes his croaky laugh again. "And being kept down here like an animal isn't wrong?"

"Of course it is. But that's no reason to do wrong in return."

"Oh, child," he says sadly. "Oh, child."

***

Luna knocked before letting herself into the cell. She wasn't sure why; nobody had ever knocked on her cell door before entering. She merely sensed that entering unexpectedly would wound Mrs Malfoy, and Luna had no wish to inflict hurt. Enough pain had been inflicted in the past year.

Mrs Malfoy straightened as Luna pulled up her chair and sat opposite. Luna thought about waiting; considered forcing the woman to speak first. But she did not have the energy.

"I brought you a letter from Mr Malfoy." She held out a worn piece of parchment, filled with small, neat writing. "I'm afraid it's been read, because all communication between you has to be monitored. But they've left it untouched."

Mrs Malfoy took the letter gently and placed it on the bed beside her; her eyes lingered on it before returning to meet Luna's.

"If you want to reply," Luna said, "I have some spare parchment. I could collect it next time I'm here."

Mrs Malfoy's expression chilled at this suggestion. Luna held her gaze. "I went to see Draco. He let me in when I said I'd seen you."

The chilliness receded. Mrs Malfoy looked around the room and opened her mouth several times before anything came out. "How is he?"

"He's well in body, not so well in spirit," Luna said. This was an understatement; Malfoy had seemed half-deranged by what Luna diagnosed as a fatal blend of fury and wounded pride. But there was no point in causing his mother unnecessary worry.

Mrs Malfoy was silent, apparently considering what to do. Finally, she said, "Can you -- could you take a message to him for me?"

"Yes, if he'll see me," Luna answered. Relief tingled down her spine and she added, "and I'm sure he will, if I let him know I've seen you."

Mrs Malfoy nodded and reached inside her robe. Luna took the letter, biting down her surprise; of course she would have a one ready. Hadn't Luna written lengthy missives of her own -- in her mind, during the endless nights -- during her incarceration? To her father, to Harry, to Ginny and Neville...it was one of the few activities that had soothed her in the dark. "I'll deliver it as soon as I can," she said.

In the pause that followed, Luna gazed around the cell. The silence didn't bother her; she was good at silence.

"Why are you doing this?"

"I want people to know the other side of the story."

Mrs Malfoy shook her head. "Not the article. Why are you helping me communicate with my husband and son?"

"Because..." Luna considered. "Because I know how it felt to be cut off from my father. And don't think you had much choice in what you did. It wasn't your fault Mr Ollivander and I were kept in your cellar."

"No?" Mrs Malfoy eyed her closely. "But I allowed it to happen."

"Everything happens for a reason," Luna said.

"That's a pointlessly fatalistic attitude," Mrs Malfoy snapped. "There are no reasons. There are just people trying to survive, and ensure that their loved ones do likewise."

"Exactly." Luna nods. "You didn't have much choice, like I said."

Mrs Malfoy was silent. "I think," she said eventually, "that there is a very angry little girl trapped somewhere inside you. And you'd better look out when she breaks free."

***

She can't Apparate, although she's been trying all night. The DA practised Apparition on Hogsmeade Saturdays -- at least, they tried to. Ginny picked it up quickly, but Luna, afraid of splinching herself, never managed to shift more than a few centimetres. Here in this stuffy, smelly room, she would happily leave half of herself behind if it meant the other half was free.

It's no use, though. Whether it's her missing wand or the charms on the walls, she can't move a centimetre.

She'll have to escape the Muggle way, then. She thinks of all the children in books: of keys expelled from locks with hairpins; of brave girls rushing their captors and tying them up with string.

"Child," Mr Ollivander says wearily, and she realises she's been thinking aloud again. She hopes the Wrackspurts aren't getting to her.

"Mr Ollivander?"

"Yes?"

"Please, could you call me Luna? I'm not a child."

"You're too young to be in this mess," he says roughly, but from then on he uses her name.

The door creaks open to reveal a blonde woman bathed in light. For an electrified moment, Luna thinks her mother has come to rescue her, until her eyes adjust and she realises that this must be Narcissa Malfoy.

Mrs Malfoy mutters a charm and a tray floats to the floor. Mr Ollivander scrambles toward it, but Luna, although hungry, is hungrier for the vision of her mother that she just glimpsed. "Thank you," she tells the vision.

Mrs Malfoy is taller than her mother, but her blonde hair is swept up in the same style. Whenever Luna looks at photographs of the old days, she becomes conscious of her own straggling locks and wonders whether she should ask someone to show her some hair management charms. Aside from the hair, there's really no resemblance that she can make out in the half-light that filters down the stairs.

"Do you need anything?" Mrs Malfoy asks in a clipped voice.

Luna looks to Mr Ollivander, but he is bending over the tray, on which she can make out two plates. "It's a little hard to see in the dark," she says.

Mrs Malfoy murmurs something; a bubble of light appears on the tray, picking out Mr Ollivander's teeth as he chews. Before Luna can say thank you, the door slams.

Luna stares at Mr Ollivander, who stares back.

"Come closer," he says. "Let me see your face."

On her knees, she moves forward and lets him look for a long moment.

He sits back with a sigh. "I remember you now." He nudges a plate toward her. "Eat. You must keep your strength up." When she doesn't move, he adds, "For the days when they don't bother to feed us."

Luna eats, but her mind is on the blonde vision in the doorway. She has been longing for her father, but the sight of her mother is an unexpected gift.

***

"How did you feel about Voldemort?" Luna asked, and Mrs Malfoy flinched.

"I hated him. But he was a great Legilimens, so I had to keep my emotions well-hidden. We all did. I didn’t feel anything at all, much of the time."

"Your sister loved him."

Mrs Malfoy eyed her. "Yes. My sister’s mind was warped by her time in here."

There was no answer to that. Luna glanced at her notes. "How did you feel about him using your cellar as his private dungeon?"

"As anyone would, I disliked it."

"What about the people who were kept down there? Did you think about them?" Luna kept her voice casual.

Mrs Malfoy glanced at her knowingly. "Not really," she said after a hesitation. "I -- they were just one more difficulty to worry about."

"Did you try to help them, at all?"

"No." Mrs Malfoy drew a quick breath. "Helping them would have meant death. Wormtail discovered that."

Luna nodded. She had not liked the little man, but the news of his death had come as a shock. "You didn’t…" She chewed the end of her quill, pretending to read through her notes. "…didn’t try to do anything that would have made things better for the prisoners?"

"Didn’t you hear me, child?"

"I’m not a child," Luna snapped. "I am seventeen, and I spent five months in your cellar. I deserve to know the truth."

In the silence, Mrs Malfoy adjusted her position. "Is that what this is about?"

Luna swallowed, trying to gather her thoughts. "No," she said quickly. "No, I want--"

"You want to know if we felt sorry for you? If we cared that you were down there, if we cared whether you died?" Mrs Malfoy’s voice was hard. "I’ve been trying to tell you, child, we had no energy to spare for that, we were too busy trying to keep ourselves--"

"I am not a child!" Luna shouted, and her quill clattered to the ground.

Mrs Malfoy stopped, her eyes wide. Luna fumbled for her quill and riffled through her notes, but she couldn’t read them for her tears. All she could think of was the cellar, and the months spent in the dark. Mr Ollivander, who was still so weak. The wreck her father had been when she’d found him. Blindly, she pressed the knut to summon the guard, and turned to the door.

***

Christmas Day, and they have no food. Luna runs through her DA drills, and afterward, she tells Mr Ollivander about her mother, to help keep the Wrackspurts at bay.

They congregate thickly down here. Luna is vigilant, but it's Mr Ollivander she really worries about. He falls prey to them so easily. At first he was sarcastic when she explained what they were, but yesterday, he admitted that he was a martyr to them until she came.

Since the uproar in the night, there's been no sign of life in the room above apart from occasional footsteps. When the shouting woke them, Mr Ollivander pulled her close, his fingers painful on her wrist, and they lay there, shaking and waiting. At first, Luna wondered if they were coming to chop off her fingers, like the Death Eaters had threatened. But only one person made Mr Ollivander tremble like that.

Voldemort.

She says the name clearly in her mind. He terrifies her, but that's why she needs to say his name. Fear of the unknown is much worse than a fear unnamed. Besides, anything that makes Voldemort so angry must be good for his opponents, and Luna is still part of Dumbledore’s Army.

When Mrs Malfoy appears the following day, a bruise is healing on her cheek. During the disturbance on Christmas Eve, her voice had been raised suddenly in fear. "Draco!" After that, there was no more shouting, only Voldemort, his voice low but replete with rage. Luna would love to know what made him so angry.

Mrs Malfoy betrays no sign of nerves today as she floats the tray to the floor with its globe of light. Nobody else gives them light. Draco slams the tray down hard and hurries out without looking into the room. The little nervous man who looks nearly as unhealthy as Mr Ollivander simply puts down the tray and scurries away. There is no sign of Draco's father, or of the other woman who lives here, the one with the screechy voice, who makes Mr Ollivander anxious.

"Thank you," Luna says before Mrs Malfoy can turn away. Curiosity overcoming her hunger, she adds, "I hope you're all well? That was quite a noise, the other night."

Mrs Malfoy's face is impassive in the light from the doorway. "Quite well, thank you." She turns, then pauses. "If you should hear any more…noise, I advise you to keep very quiet. It wouldn’t do to draw attention to yourself."

Mr Ollivander talks more while the light lasts, which is for several hours after they've finished eating. He tells her about his early life, when he dreamed of inventing new kinds of wands. He travelled all over the world looking for knowledge, but finally realised that his family was the best place to learn.

Luna nods. "Daddy's taught me more than I ever learned at Hogwarts." This isn't quite true. She learned almost everything she knows about spellwork at school -- but her father's knowledge has taught her about life. "And so did my mother, before she died."

There is silence in the darkness. "Tell me more about your mother," Mr Ollivander says.

Her mother was soft and warm, with a bright smile whenever she looked at Luna. When she worked she was different: her hair was swept back into an untidy knot and a frown line appeared between her eyebrows. But always, when she turned toward Luna, her smile broke out like sunshine.

"Come here," she'd say, and Luna would clamber onto her lap, and they would sing while she worked.

_Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,  
Onward! the sailors cry;  
Carry the lad that's born to be King  
Over the sea to Skye._

Luna can't remember the sound of her mother's voice, only the words and the memory of the comfort they imparted. Listening, she floated on a cloud of safety, where the outside world could not touch her. It's how she knows that her mother is still with her, because she's always been able to go inside and find that cloud: to float away when others mocked her or hurt her.

She does that now, and the cloud wraps her safely.

Mr Ollivander doesn't have a cloud, or if he did once, it's been torn from him. Now, he says: "My dear girl, do you think we might have a break from the singing?"

Luna lets the cloud float a little way distant, although not so distant that the Wrackspurts will get it. You have to be extra vigilant about things like that in here. "Of course, Mr Ollivander," she says.

***

A week later, she entered the cell and placed a letter from Draco on the bed. Mrs Malfoy clutched it, then looked up curiously.

"I wasn’t expecting to see you again."

"I want to write this story," Luna said. She arranged her notes on her lap, giving Mrs Malfoy time to read Draco’s missive. But Mrs Malfoy was still watching her.

"I didn’t want you to be there," she said. "I didn’t ask for you to be put in my cellar."

"I know."

It was the lack of power, she had decided the previous night. That was what had been so terrifying about captivity: the sense that nobody cared if you lived or died. The awareness that the people who held you prisoner could do _anything_ , and you were powerless to stop them. But the Malfoys had been powerless, too; she had known that at the time.

She pointed her quill at the parchment. "Tell me about the day Voldemort came to your house."

Mrs Malfoy straightened her back. "It was in June," she began. "He brought Lucius; he had rescued him from prison." She glanced around the cell. "Temporarily."

Luna nodded. "Go on." They would keep to neutral subjects; that ought to do the trick.

It seemed to. Questions and answers were exchanged politely, and Luna found herself well able to focus on her notes. Mrs Malfoy, for her part, was a good interview subject; her responses were filled with pertinent details. She was clearly skewing the facts to flatter her family, but Luna had expected nothing else. It was all good article material.

After an hour, Luna rolled up her parchment and threaded the quill through her hair. She was looking forward to rereading her notes and shaping them into something worthy of publication. 

She had the knut in her hand when Mrs Malfoy said in a stifled tone, "I did what I could."

Luna paused.

"There wasn’t much difference between you and Draco, you know. He was just as much a prisoner -- we all were. But I tried to make things bet- less bad for you."

"You gave us light," Luna said. It sounded like such a little thing, in retrospect, for something that had made a huge difference.

Mrs Malfoy nodded. "Every time I looked at you, I saw my son. I -- it was almost like praying, in a way. I thought, if I could keep you safe, my own child might be spared."

"And it worked," Luna said, interested despite herself. "You see? It’s like I said, it all happens for a reason."

"No." Mrs Malfoy shook her head. "There was no reason. I was just trying to get by."

"No, but…" Luna smiled. "I think we’re actually saying the same thing, just differently. Well." She took a deep breath. "Thank you for doing what you could."

Mrs Malfoy held her gaze. "I’m sorry you were involved. I’m sorry you had to go through that."

"Draco’s much better," Luna said inconsequentially.

Mrs Malfoy nodded. "He’s young; he’ll heal quickly. But his wounds cut deep. Young people’s always do."

Luna tapped her knut to summon the guard, feeling suddenly lighter.

***

The weeks pass. Luna has lost track of dates, but she thinks it must be late February. Wand or no wand, she still runs through her exercises and checks for chinks in the cellar's enchantments, but she no longer expects to find any. Something extreme is going to be needed to rescue them.

"Your father's in Azkaban," Draco throws at her one evening along with their meal. "Looks like he couldn't behave himself, even with you in here."

Luna’s heart twists in fear. "Is he all right?"

Draco looks at her with contempt that does not quite mask his pity. "He's in Azkaban. What do you think?"

Lucius Malfoy was in Azkaban, Luna remembers. She glimpsed him a few nights ago; he looks much older than his wife, nervous and haggard, even now he is free. Although that may be because of Voldemort, who seems to drop in without notice at all hours of the day and night.

When he is present, these are the only times that Luna is glad of the door that shields her from him. She pities the Malfoys then, which gives her enough compassion for politeness whenever they venture down here.

One evening, she looks up as footsteps echo on the stairs, but nobody opens the door.

"Bella, what are you doing?" It is Mrs Malfoy's voice.

"Her father let the boy slip through his fingers!" Mrs Lestrange shrieks. "We could have had him here, safe and ready for the Dark Lord to kill."

"Her father is in Azkaban," Mrs Malfoy says.

"Exactly." The door chain clatters. "But the girl isn't."

"The girl isn't to be harmed. She's here as collateral only."

"She's _useless_ as collateral," Mrs Lestrange snarls. "I'm going to wipe that moony expression off her face."

Mr Ollivander reaches for Luna's hand and cradles it in both of his own. But she knows he can't save her -- won't save her, if Mrs Lestrange comes through that door.

" _He_ wouldn't like it," snaps Mrs Malfoy, and there is no doubt about whom she is referring to.

Mrs Lestrange is silent. Luna would be surprised if what the other woman said was true. From what she's heard in her time here, she suspects the Dark Lord wouldn't care a jot if she died under torture. With her father in prison, she has lost any bargaining power she ever had.

"Come on, Bella." Mrs Malfoy's voice is soft but steely. "Come on. We're waiting for you in the dining room."

Something crashes against the door; Luna and Mr Ollivander jump. Footsteps clunk up the stairs, leaving them breathing quietly in the darkness.

They have no dinner that night, but they are alive and she is unharmed. Perhaps that's enough to be grateful about, for now.

***

Two weeks later, Luna entered the cell once more and placed a slim magazine on the bed.

**My life with Voldemort: Narcissa Malfoy on what really happened at Malfoy Manor.**

Mrs Malfoy flipped to the right page and scanned it as Luna settled herself into the chair. "You were fair," she said at length. "Thank you."

"I hear you’re being released." The trial had been held the previous day; Luna had not attended, but the details were all over the _Prophet_.

Mrs Malfoy’s head came up. "Yes." Her lips twisted. "Apparently, I haven’t technically committed any crime that they could find in the texts."

"I’m sorry Draco isn’t to be released as well." Luna wasn't certain that she meant this; after all, Draco had been a Death Eater. But it seemed polite to say so.

"No. Well." Mrs Malfoy wrapped her arms around her shoulders. "I shall be able to campaign on his behalf. And visit him."

Draco had been condemned to two years of imprisonment. Lucius had been given a harsher sentence, but even that was not enough for some sections of society. People were calling for all known Death Eaters to be locked up for life.

"Well, I'm glad you'll be able to visit him." That was definitely the truth. She hesitated. "I met your sister yesterday."

"I have no sister." Mrs Malfoy's voice was bitter.

"Yes, you do," Luna said gently. "I don't think you can have forgotten her, however hard you tried."

Mrs Malfoy's mouth worked. "Draco and Lucius are my family. They’re the ones who matter to me."

Luna nodded. "I know. But Mrs Tonks is part of your family, too."

"If you...if she thinks that because I'm in disgrace, I'll accept her, as some kind of _charity_ ," Mrs Malfoy burst out, "you’re wrong. I don't need her."

"Your sister is very ill," Luna said. "She lost her husband and her daughter in just a few weeks. I don't understand what you mean by charity -- she needs you. _She_ needs family."

"She has..." Mrs Malfoy swallowed and spoke more calmly. "She has the boy."

"Teddy." Luna smiled. "Yes, I met him, too. He's very sweet."

"Is he a werewolf?"

"No!" Luna squared her shoulders. "But you know, it wouldn't matter if he were. He'd still be a beautiful little boy."

Mrs Malfoy hesitated. "You say my -- she's ill?"

"She's very sad," Luna said, and thought of Mrs Tonks's bleached face. "She pretends not to be, but she sits at home all day. It's not good for the baby."

"Where did you meet her, then?"

“I visited her, with Harry. He’s Teddy’s godfather."

"Of course he is." There was that bitter tone again. 

"I really think," she said gently, "if you could bring yourself to visit, it would help her."

Mrs Malfoy sighed. "Perhaps I will. Although I’ll be very busy, of course. Draco and Lucius will take up most of my time." Her gaze met Luna’s. "I’ll…probably I will find time to visit her," she said more quietly.

Luna smiled. "I’m sure she’ll appreciate it."

***

More time passed. Luna and Mr Ollivander kept routines when they could: every morning, Luna practised her drills while Mr Ollivander offered advice, based on the little he could see of her movements. Every afternoon, they drank water, pretending it was tea, and made polite conversation about the world. Every evening, they swapped stories of their lives, and Luna delved deeper into memories of her mother.

She found herself thinking increasingly of her friends on the outside. Imagining their doings gave her a sense of freedom: she was with Neville as he rescued a first year; she helped Ginny curse Alecto Carrow; she watched Harry confound Voldemort. She always felt better after these sessions, with more energy to keep up Mr Ollivander's spirits, as well as her own.

They tracked time by the meals, although it was difficult given their irregularity. They were usually fed twice a day; sometimes once or three times. Occasionally, there was no food at all -- generally when there was a lot of activity overhead. Luna supposed that the Malfoys were busy with their hosting duties. The house didn’t seem like much of a home to them these days; they were more like prisoners.

The air warmed up a little, although the dank room was still too cold. Luna passed the days by inventing stories about what she would do after she escaped: she would travel all over the world with her father, in search of famous beasts that nobody else believed were real. In these stories, they never actually found anything, because that would have required an ending. Luna preferred to leave them in limbo, ready for another adventure.

Then one night, there was noise in the room above. Luna heard shouts, voices she didn’t recognise, and then a deeper one that she thought belonged to Mr Malfoy. He was repeating something, a word that gradually coalesced into a name.

_Potter._

Mrs Lestrange shrieked, drowning out everyone else. There was a heavy thud, as if someone had fallen to the ground, followed by other thuds and bumps. Were they fighting? Luna listened, straining to hear more clues to what was happening.

Mr Ollivander sighed and turned over. He had been very quiet during the past few days. Luna worried that the Wrackspurts were taking hold of him once more.

Footsteps clattered down the stairs and Luna backed up against the wall. Was this it? Was Mrs Lestrange finally going to torture her?

But all that happened was that several figures were shoved into the room, after which the door slammed shut.

There was a scream from above. Someone was being tortured tonight, although it wasn’t Luna.

"HERMIONE!" someone yelled at close range, and Luna jumped. Hermione was upstairs? Oh, no; it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be Hermione making that terrible sound, full of agony and fear and desperation.

"Be quiet!" a voice said in the darkness. "Shut up, Ron, we need to work out a way--"

But the other person -- _Ron_? -- was shouting again, clearly beyond reasoning with. "HERMIONE! HERMIONE!"

Luna felt dizzy. Hermione was upstairs, being tortured. Ron was calling for her. And the other person, the one who should have been far, far away -- Harry was here. Her friends were here.

Time sped up. She cut Harry and Ron loose from their bonds, and Ron lit the room with some amazing device that showed off how startlingly dirty they all looked. There were more screams from upstairs, and Harry yelled something, and then a house-elf appeared. Almost before Luna knew what was happening, the elf was Apparating her away, just as if she hadn't spent months trying to do exactly the same thing. And then there was the beautiful smell of fresh air -- sea air -- and Luna lay on soft grass, and knew that she was free.

***

Freedom. The air tasted wonderful out here on the hillside. If there was an upside to being held prisoner for four months, it was the fact that Luna would never again take her freedom for granted.

Conversely, she would never walk up here on the Downs above her home, breathing in the fresh air, without thinking of the weeks she had spent at Shell Cottage, so beautiful and calm and safe as to be almost paradisiacal.

But Shell Cottage had been a time out of life; the Downs were home. Up here, there were no pitying looks and no sudden silences. Nobody mocked her or rolled their eyes at anything she said. There was just the grass and the wind and the occasional sheep.

She still saw Dean, Fleur and Bill, dropping in on them along with all the other people she called friends. Neville had been to see her the other week; he had been kind to her father, which she had appreciated, and they had laughed together over some of the things that had happened last year, because it was better than crying.

Tomorrow, Mr Ollivander was visiting for a few days -- a country jaunt, he had called it in his Owl, which should set him up for the reopening of his shop. She hoped he and her father would be friends.

She was wrestling with another story for _The Quibbler_. Her father had been encouraging her to write about her experiences since he was released from Azkaban. He himself had been journalling, and publishing excruciatingly detailed extracts in the Editor’s Notes.

Luna had a story -- several versions of one, actually, but none of them felt right. All were versions offered up for public consumption, whether they covered her imprisonment, her escape or her time at Hogwarts. And none of them were new: plenty of people had written about their terrible experiences in the weeks since Voldemort’s death.

Another version was germinating just out of reach; she could sense it as she turned her face into the wind. A version that would not gloss over reality, but would dwell on the interconnectedness of things, and on the emotional truth rather than hard facts. This, she thought, was the one she needed to write.

Mrs Malfoy visited her sister yesterday. Luna knew this, because afterward, she had received a brief Owl.

_My sister not well, but will do better. Thank you._

Luna smiled and turned back down the hill. She would stop by the stream, she decided, and catch some Plimpies for dinner. Her father would like that.

Her new wand worked better than the old one ever had. Not that she had been doing much magic recently -- it was as if she had lost the habit, being wandless for so long. But it was still there when she wanted it, intangible but always present.

Wandering down the track, she sang the Skye Boat Song under her breath. Over the wind, she could almost make out her mother’s voice, singing along.


End file.
